


Love Means Nothing in Tennis

by hargrave



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Adam Parrish experiences his bisexual awakening, Canon Compliant, Gay Awakening, M/M, One Shot, Ronan Lynch plays Tennis, Tennis, mild NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29453628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hargrave/pseuds/hargrave
Summary: There is a moment of concern that, maybe, Ronan forgot about their arrangement, said fuck tennis, as he is known to do, and left without him. It’s not like Adam couldn’t get home, he still has his bicycle, but the thought of being ditched leaves him mildly annoyed before realization smacks him like a brick to the face.Ronan is right in front of him.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 30
Kudos: 187





	Love Means Nothing in Tennis

Staying after school on a Friday afternoon isn’t exactly Adam Parrish’s idea of a good time. He has a shift at the factory in a few hours, over half a ten-page essay to draft for European history, the calc quiz on Monday to study for, and a worksheet on magnetism to complete. The list goes on and on and on, seemingly never ending, leaving him with very little time for a much needed eight hours of rest.

God, what Adam would give for it to be socially acceptable to lay down on the soft-looking grass spread across the courtyard, curl up in a ball, and just _sleep_.

But it’s not and Adam is, if anything, sensible and a little too conscious over not wanting to out how different he is from all the other boys at Aglionby. Poor scholarship student, threadbare uniform, plagued by his work ethic and need to prove himself, psychic inclinations, a very recent self-inflicted connection to a magical and probably primordial forest; all things setting him apart with some more obvious than others.

He would like to avoid bringing any awareness to himself, if he can help it, which is why he ducks his head and slumps his shoulders forward as he wanders from Welch Hall towards the courts. Being friends with Gansey and Ronan is already bad enough as it is, Adam often senses the other students' attention on him, the question of _why him?_ so apparent in their stares he can practically feel the burn down to his core.

Why is he even here again?

Right.

 _Right_.

Sometime earlier in the day, Ronan brought up driving Adam to his new home at St. Agnes, all he has to do is wait until he is done with tennis. It’s not like Adam is opposed to taking his bicycle, he’s used to it by now, but the sticky summer heat edging in more and more makes the ride back home a little more miserable than it used to be.

So he’ll take Ronan’s rare act of benevolence despite having to hang around campus on a Friday for an extra hour or two.

The first sign Adam is getting close is the sound of nylon smacking against hard rubber. He counts the seconds between each.

Wham. One, two. Smack. One, two, three. Whack.

Turning the corner, Adam is greeted by the sight of a tall, chain-link fence and, then, two bodies running hastily across the blue court. He can’t quite make out what is going on, but as he approaches the fence it becomes a little clearer.

Two boys darting back and forth, each chasing after an obnoxiously bright, yellow ball, trying their darndest to make sure it doesn’t get past them.

Adam has no idea who is on the opposite side, he’s not sure he has ever seen the guy before although they go to the same school. His eyes scan the students hanging at the sides of the court, looking for Lynch, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth when he doesn’t spot the familiar buzzed scalp, striking blue glare, or dark clothing anywhere.

There is a moment of concern that, maybe, Ronan forgot about their arrangement, said _fuck tennis_ , as he is known to do, and left without him. It’s not like Adam couldn’t get home, he still has his bicycle, but the thought of being ditched leaves him mildly annoyed before realization smacks him like a brick to the face.

Ronan is right in front of him.

In something _other_ than his usual black, on black, on black.

He rubs fingers into his tired eyes, wanting to be certain he isn’t hallucinating. When Adam pulls them away, he blinks a few times while his bleary vision adjusts and realizes what he’s seeing is really Ronan, sprinting after a ball, wearing a loose white t-shirt, tiny navy shorts, a matching sweatband on his head, and worn in tennis shoes.

Holy _shit_.

Adam never even considered Ronan owning anything that didn’t fit somewhere on the greyscale, much less what he’s wearing now. His gaze sticks to the other boy’s moving form, taking him in as best he can regardless of his erratic movements, brows drawing in at the view.

He’s not entirely confident he has ever seen Ronan in anything other than jeans, often ripped just enough to offer the slightest hint of the legs underneath, and Adam can’t help noticing how _long_ they are.

While he watches Ronan move about, Adam feels his mind shift from mild curiosity to a somewhat puzzling, more intense fascination with the staggering length of Ronan’s limbs, how each muscle flexes per his efforts, the way his ill-fitted shirt sticks almost translucent to the small of his back from sweat.

There’s no real reason why he should be so absorbed in the image before him, but he can’t tear himself away no matter how much he tries.

As if Adam is waiting for more, whatever the hell _that_ could mean.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

He can’t _stop_ thinking about it.

A heavy, almost syrupy warmth begins to fill Adam’s stomach as he keeps studying Lynch maneuvering effortlessly from side to side.

Even here, doing something so ordinary, Ronan demands a kind of reverence most people could only wish to achieve once in their miserable lives. He’s a force to be reckoned with while he does the most mundane of things, a dangerous storm in the shape of a person, an enigma Adam sometimes wishes he could put underneath a metaphorical microscope.

That’s all this is. Nothing more than a scientific interest.

All Adam wants to do is pick Ronan apart, figure out what really makes such a contemptuous, perilous, yet venerable boy tick.

Nothing more.

Nope.

No way.

It doesn’t explain the way he stares, watching as Ronan’s much-too-short shorts shift up to reveal an expanse of pale skin which should doubtlessly remain covered, and the subsequent longing to see _more_.

Is Ronan even wearing underwear?

He _has_ to be, there’s no way he isn’t, because if he wasn’t then Adam wouldn’t be the only one currently getting an eyeful of more Ronan Lynch than anyone should ever be subjected to.

Adam thinks he’s going to finally be able to force his eyes away when the volley comes to an end, with Ronan striking the ball so hard it’s near impossible to see as it flies across the court and past the boy on the other side.

Ronan turns around, facing Adam, head inclined down as he stomps towards the chain link separating them. His features glistens with a layer of sweat, white top clinging to his softly heaving chest, both likely caused by a mixture of exertion and seasonally high temperatures. He reaches down, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt, to shamelessly pull the fabric up and wipe off his brow.

A rush of yearning spreads through Adam so abruptly his knees nearly give out beneath him. The sight of Ronan’s exposed waist, tapering but still undeniably powerful, toned, gleaming from perspiration, is almost too much for him.

He wants to touch.

No, he doesn’t.

He wants to drag his nails along the thick, curly trail of dark hair leading down into the material of Ronan’s unbearably lacking sports shorts.

No, he doesn’t.

He wants to lick a strip up his stomach, feel the flesh quiver underneath him, to coil his own fingers around Ronan’s bony hips and hold him down so he’s at Adam’s mercy.

 _Oh_.

Well, this is a different, unwarranted, and _definitely_ unwelcome desire Adam isn’t at all prepared to analyze. He can totally push it to the back of his mind, so far it’s barely there, left for another day, week, month, year or, better yet, maybe never contemplate ever again.

“Parrish.”

The slightly out of breath, raspy tone of voice sends a shiver straight down Adam’s spine. He tenses, head jerking up from where he’d been blatantly staring at Ronan’s torso, meeting profoundly light blue eyes with his own darker ones. Adam can’t tell if he’s horrified or thrilled by the idea he may have been caught staring, perhaps it’s both.

He swallows, mouth and throat sticky with saliva, knowing he needs to say something but he’s at a loss for words.

“Fuck, man, you finally snap?” Ronan lets the shirt drop, leaving only a sliver of uncovered skin along his hip to plague Adam further. “Woulda thought you had a few more weeks before going full psycho on us.”

Ronan’s mouth stretches with amusement following his idiotic comment, showing off one too many of his teeth, more like a snarl than a smile.

Adam’s features twist with exasperation, both at the haughty boy standing there with a fence between them and himself for apparently experiencing some momentary attraction to him. His arms cross against his chest, immediately defensive. “You’re so annoying.”

There’s a short pause before Ronan laughs, wild and much more free sounding than Adam thinks he’ll ever be able to accomplish himself. His stomach churns, jealousy and need twisting together inside of him. Adam has no idea if he wants to be like Ronan, be with Ronan, or something else entirely, but it’s enough to leave him frustrated and at least mildly aroused, the latter bit horrifying for him to acknowledge in the slightest.

Being turned on by _Lynch_ is probably the worst possible thing Adam can imagine.

Yet here he is.

“Yeah, what the fuck ever, you still need a ride, psycho?” Ronan asks, no longer looking at Adam. He’s staring down, picking at the bottom of his shirt with his free hand, aimlessly and skillfully twirling his racket in the other.

Adam allows himself a moment to contemplate the boy fidgeting before him with the one who had him wound up to the point of hysterics not even a minute before. Somehow the contrast does nothing to quell his raging emotions, no, if anything the notion that Ronan exists as both this irreverent being alongside the more reticent version of him only fans the flame inside of him.

Adam nods, slow and careful not to seem eager because he’s _not_. He likes Blue, wants to hold her hand, press his lips to hers over and over, touch her, and whatever it is that Lynch makes him feel is nothing.

Nothing but a weird fluke.

He hopes.

With a grimace he says, “Could you not call me that?”

“That an order or a suggestion?” Ronan raises a single, sharp eyebrow at Adam.

“God, just shut up, Ronan.”

“Now _that’s_ an order. Anyway, you never answered my question, man, do you or don’t you want me to give you a fucking ride?”

He resists the urge to lick his chapped lips or think too hard on the way Ronan’s mouth wraps a little too easily around the words _fucking_ and _ride_. “Yeah, please? Only reason why I’m still on campus, not like I stayed to watch you get all sweaty.”

Ronan gives Adam an indecipherable look, his mouth opening to say something only to audibly snap shut when the coach calls for him to complete the game. He glances away, back to Adam with a smirk so wide it’s disconcerting, then leaves him standing there, wondering what just happened and if he should be bothered by the butterflies in his gut.

Of all the things Adam worries may set him apart from other Aglionby students, he would rather not add liking boys to the mix. Most of all, he doesn’t want whatever complicated disaster may come from liking Ronan Lynch of all people.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my very first TRC fic, and also my first fic in a couple years. 
> 
> Yes, the title is a silly pun. No, I know next to nothing about tennis.
> 
> Feel free to come say hi at:
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://uzurazura.tumblr.com/)


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